Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  Sophie texted Famie, then glanced between the two girls. There was no doubt now: Hari’s twin sisters were in front of her. The first was level with her, the second near the middle step. Eyes down, they both seemed to be talking to themselves. No one paid them any attention. At the entrance, the first girl glanced around. Seeing her sister close behind, she walked straight into the cathedral.

  ‘No, this is not a hoax,’ said Sam. ‘I’m Sam Carter, IPS. International Press Service. Just get your people here.’ He hung up.

  The second girl, clearly distressed, stumbled slightly at the top, before regaining her balance. Step by careful step, she followed her sister inside. Now ten metres behind them, Hussain and the grandmother shuffled closer. The old woman looked straight ahead, Hussain, like some dutiful bodyguard on the move, looked everywhere. Into the cathedral, through the porch.

  Up the stairs.

  ‘Looking straight at us,’ said Sam in the direction of his shoes. ‘Stay small, Sophe.’

  Sophie pushed herself tighter into Sam’s back. She texted Famie again. Sam sent Famie the photos.

  Hussain and the grandmother stopped outside the entrance. Keeping a firm hand on her shoulder, he took one more look around. Short, jerky movements of his head that took in all angles. Apparently satisfied, he steered the woman inside.

  ‘All clear,’ said Sam.

  Sophie uncoiled. ‘So what’s it to be?’ she said. She didn’t need to explain.

  ‘The official advice is “run, hide and tell”,’ he said, ‘but I’ve already done the telling.’

  ‘You want to run and hide?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Sam.

  ‘But you’re not going to, are you?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Of course I’m not. But you are. Hussain knows you. You can’t go in there.’

  Sophie gave Sam a brief smile. ‘Not arguing.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Let’s hope the coppers are fast. Take care. Hussain is a psycho.’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you now, make sure you’re safe. But then I need to come back here.’

  Sam scrambled to his feet, started to climb down the steps. Sophie stood too. Hussain had stopped just the other side of the glass, the folds of the woman’s sari twisted tightly in his fingers. Sam hesitated. Hussain glanced round.

  81

  8.57 a.m.

  HUNTER’S BMW HIT the Kenilworth Road to the university and topped ninety. Espie drove, Charlie behind her, Hunter the front passenger, Famie behind her. Hunter was on her radio, Espie on hers. Two separate, shouted conversations, a howler siren. Hunter identifying herself as a Met officer, Espie talking to Control.

  Famie felt her phone vibrate, pulled it from her pocket. She read the text twice. ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she said. She handed the phone to Hunter. ‘It’s from Sophie Arnold. It’s happening right now and we’re heading to the wrong place!’

  Hunter read the text out loud: ‘Amal Hussain is here with twins and grandmother. Coventry Cathedral steps from car park. Sending photos.’

  Hunter turned to Espie but she’d started the manoeuvre already. ‘Hold on!’ she shouted.

  A brief, stabbed brake, then a screeched U-turn across both carriageways. Famie leant into Charlie. Charlie pushed back against her door. Tyres spinning, the tail end of the BMW swung into the cycle lane, then straightened as Espie floored it. Hunter was yelling into her radio, Famie rang Sophie. Who didn’t pick up. It rang without answerphone and Famie hung up. Texted.

  Get out of there now.

  Hunter’s BMW topped one hundred but it still didn’t seem fast enough. Famie sat forward, willing the miles away. If Amal Hussain was in the cathedral, Hari and the others must be there already. Or on their way. And the twins and the grandmother must be hostages.

  Famie spoke to the car, her head between Espie and Hunter. ‘Hussain might not know that Sophie is pregnant with Seth’s child. But if he does, Sophie is in serious danger. It’s clear that for Hussain, this is personal. Whatever else is going on, his “honour” or some bollocks like that has been offended. He’ll target her, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Send me those photos,’ said Hunter.

  Famie Bluetoothed them.

  ‘Got it.’

  Two photos. The first showed the crowd under the cathedral’s high porch. The twins were tiny figures, almost lost in the hubbub and the architecture. She enlarged the image but the quality wasn’t good enough to see much detail. Two brown-skinned girls in pink was all she got. In the second, the camera had swung right, to the pillars at the top of the cathedral steps. Hussain and the grandmother were framed between the sandstone columns. She enlarged again, filling her screen with Hussain’s face.

  ‘That’s him. And it’s enough,’ she said. ‘Even if it’s only him, we need the ARVs. And the Level Ones. If Amal Hussain is in the cathedral, we need everyone we can get.’ She forwarded the photos, got back on the radio.

  ‘Am I still under arrest?’ said Famie.

  ‘Technically,’ said Hunter.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  They flew past the station, braking hard at the ring road roundabout, then dipping and accelerating straight on towards the old city.

  ‘I have effectively told my boss to shove it,’ said Hunter. ‘Back at the hotel. DC Milne said to take you in. I said we needed to get to the protest at the university first. Then I’d take you in.’

  ‘He never liked me, did he?’ said Famie.

  ‘He did not, and does not,’ said Hunter. ‘An unreliable, hysterical fantasist is the gist of it.’

  ‘What a bastard.’

  They took two more red lights then a roundabout without dropping below sixty. The seatbelt locking mechanisms were working hard.

  ‘If Hussain has come from the car park by the steps,’ shouted Espie, ‘we need to be on the other side.’ She waved with her left hand. ‘The Slug and Lettuce side. The Cuckoo Lane side. He might have men there too of course. We need to evacuate the whole bloody area.’

  ‘No time,’ said Hunter. ‘And really no time for the Level Ones to get here either. A ten-minute deployment time is too long. This is happening now. We need to be in there now.’

  They tore through narrow, deserted streets, ignoring the one-way system. They hit the cobbles and Espie killed the siren. She parked across the lane, blocking it completely. Their lights flashed around the bricks and windows of coffee shops and high-end cafés. Curious faces peered out. A couple at an outdoor table stood up, menus in hand, as if to complain about the noise. Espie was out of the car already, popped the boot. Hunter spun in her seat.

  ‘Is there any point in asking you to stay here?’ she said, her head flicking between Famie and Charlie.

  ‘None at all,’ said Famie. ‘Even if I am under arrest. Technically.’

  Espie threw a heavy jacket at Hunter and they ran from the car. Famie and Charlie fell in behind them.

  ‘Lockdown around the cathedral,’ said Hunter into her radio. She held the microphone tight to her mouth. ‘Nothing out or in.’

  Famie felt Charlie tug at her sleeve. She looked drawn, haggard. Charlie shook her head. Famie understood, indicated a pizza restaurant they’d just passed. Lights on, door open.

  ‘Wait in there.’

  She squeezed her daughter’s arm, let go. Charlie pulled up, waved them on. Famie glanced back once. She lip-read her daughter perfectly: ‘Just get the fuckers,’ she said.

  The three women ran till they reached the graveyard of the old cathedral, vaulted the low wall and crashed against the spire’s ornate wooden doors. Famie had seen glimpses of the old spire from a mile out, reckoned it to be a hundred metres high at least. She wasn’t sure being at its foot made her safer or a target. Back flat to the door, she was under a bevelled sandstone arch. Five rows of slabbing led to the grassy graveyard, a few ancient tombs preserved under the trees.

  Espie caught her breath. ‘The ruins of the old cathedral are the other side of this.’ She jerked
a thumb over her shoulder. ‘The steps the photos were taken from are on the left, about fifty metres along from here. They lead to the new cathedral. Via that covered area with the columns. Where the girls were.’

  Hunter took over, speaking fast. ‘Procedure here is clear. We wait for the armed response teams to arrive. I’m told they’re three minutes away. We don’t have three minutes.’ To Espie she said, ‘So show me.’

  Espie ran right, looping through an old Gothic arch, into the ruins – an open shell of old walls, chapels and empty windows. The three women ran tight up against the bricks, heads low, sidestepping statues and wandering tourists. Through the spaces where the old stained-glass windows had been, Famie could see that they were approaching the new cathedral. They were running parallel with the path that led to the columns and the etched glass.

  Oh my God, Hari, stay safe.

  The steps Sophie and Sam had been on when they took the photos were just ahead, beyond one more broken, restored, weathered, centuries-old column. The shadows were good to them, swallowing their figures in the massive gloom cast by the sandstone.

  Espie stopped, listened to her radio. ‘ARVs are two minutes away, sirens off. Orders are to wait.’

  ‘We’re not waiting,’ said Hunter, and eased her way around the corner.

  She recoiled immediately, startled eyes, bloodless lips. Famie saw the fear and shock, then, from below, heard running footsteps. Heavy, percussive, echoing around the ruins. Hunter slid to the ground, reached for her radio.

  ‘This is DC Hunter in the old cathedral. Looking at …’

  ‘Saint Michael’s Avenue,’ said Espie.

  ‘Saint Michael’s Avenue.’

  Famie’s stomach lurched. She retreated a few steps, peered through a small space where a holy window had once stood. She was just in time to see a crowd of men pushing, jostling their way through the glass door.

  ‘Six maybe seven men are approaching from the car park.’

  ‘Eight,’ Famie called.

  Hunter made the correction.

  One of the men – green T-shirt, tattooed arms – reached for the back of his waistband. He pulled out what looked like a piece of black tubing. He pressed a button. A steel blade snapped into position. Famie gasped.

  ‘I suspect these are the men from Boxer Street.’ Hunter’s words were coming in short, staccato bursts. ‘And maybe the May twenty-two attacks also.’

  The men were now inside the cathedral and, momentarily, lined up by the glass wall. Famie scanned what she could see. Six white skins, two brown. One was tall and sinewy, the other shorter, maybe rounder. Spiky black hair. Powerful arms held at his side.

  Hari.

  And he too held a knife.

  82

  9.08 a.m.

  HARI, BREATHING HARD, put himself at the end of the line. He wasn’t sure why. He pressed back against the glass wall, an engraved angel at his shoulder. The screen felt cool, the cathedral cooler. A young woman at the book stall looked up, frowned, looked away. Standing with her, a tall white-haired man in ecclesiastical grey robes studied the arrivals. His gaze was steady. He shifted his balance as he eyed the line. Hari thought the man sensed trouble. Damn right there’s trouble. He held his knife at his side. If you’ve got a panic button, now would be good. The white-haired man flinched, steadied himself on a shelf. Didn’t move.

  Hari had never been in a cathedral – he’d had an opt-out from all RE lessons and expeditions – but he scanned this one, fast. It was a vast, open space. An aircraft hangar of a building. At first glance it appeared almost empty of adornment, the space dominated by a tennis court-sized tapestry. Hung behind the altar, floor to ceiling, it showed Christ sitting, dressed in white vestments, hands held up in benediction. A gold aura surrounded him, various winged figures Hari didn’t recognize attended to him. Everything else was a rich green. The white, green and gold shimmered down the length of the nave. Light seemed to pour from its zigzag walls, angling the sun on to the tapestry, like spotlights at a theatre.

  Hari felt filthy and exposed.

  A priest had started the service. He was dressed in robes of rich blues and reds, his arms held wide in welcome. From behind the altar – a raised platform with a bus-length slab of concrete on top – he addressed his congregation. Worshippers. Targets. Victims. About two hundred of them, Hari guessed, seated in neat rows on wooden chairs. A modest crowd, he thought, disappearing among the tapered pillars, the massive candlesticks and the thorn-like canopies above the choir stalls.

  He had heard his sisters’ voices. They were here, brought by that bastard Hussain. If he shouted for them, they would come. Hussain would kill them first of course. But they were close. As he studied each row, seat by seat, he gripped the handle of the Böhler even tighter.

  Hari spotted the rabbi he had seen earlier, seated next to a bearded man in a blue kurta. An imam presumably. Other clergy wore vestments, robes or dog collars. A round man with a gold chain around his neck was studying his phone. Millie. Amara. Hussain. All here somewhere. How was it possible to hide in such a small crowd? How could he protect them if he didn’t know where they were? He sensed Kamran next to him getting impatient. Hari didn’t know what they were waiting for.

  The priest was still talking. His head was down, he appeared to be reading. ‘So, since the terrible attacks on this city in 1940, working for tolerance, forgiveness and understanding has been at the heart of everything that happens here.’ His voice was strong, carried through the cathedral by discreet pillar-mounted loudspeakers. ‘This month is the anniversary of the Allies taking formal control of Germany in June 1945. The Berlin Declaration brought peace and reconstruction.’

  Hari glanced left. The citizens were restless, agitated.

  The priest looked up, smiled. ‘Today we welcome our American and German friends. Our Jewish and Muslim friends. Together we declare our resolute commitment to each other, and our communities.’

  Then, in a priestly silence, a tiny cough. And Hari had them. Second pillar from the front. The other side of the second pillar from the front. It was a wheezy cough, an asthmatic cough. It was Amara’s cough, and it was all he could do not to sprint the length of the nave and grab them both. He tapped the knife against his leg, wiped his face with his T-shirt. A five-second sprint. That was all it would take. He stared at the pillar, leant left and right to try and catch a glimpse. Confirmation came from half of Hussain’s face as he peered slowly around the upright, inspecting the line. He was checking on Hari. Hari was checking on him.

  It was also the cue. The waiting was over. Binici crouched, tied his laces, bounced back up. There was the muffled rattle of Böhler knives extending. The white-haired man at the book stall found a phone. Gregor started walking down the line, instructing, pointing. Each of them had a target. He leant in to Hari.

  ‘The man in the blue suit, front row. He’s the American. He’s next to the Jew. Both would be good.’

  Hari nodded.

  Binici moved first. He walked straight down the centre of the nave, following a line of sand-coloured marble, crossed with stripes of obsidian black. Each stripe was a stride, thirty strides to the altar. Hari stepped forward a few paces. The others, like sprinters waiting on the gun, agitated, bounced and muttered. But they stayed against the glass wall.

  Now was the moment. There were fractions of seconds in play and Hari needed every one of them. He matched Binici’s steps, cutting right behind the fifth pillar. The bookseller and the white-haired man were crouched behind the bookshelves. They looked up, then quickly looked at the floor.

  And straight ahead, he saw them. Thirty metres and three pillars away, Millie and Amara sat hunched, holding hands. Backs to Hari. They wore their pink ASOS tops. They had only cost Hari ten pounds, but they loved them like they were spun from gold thread.

  The priest was speaking, reading from a book, his voice amplified by small speakers on each of the pillars. It was a prayer.

  ‘All have sinned and fallen short o
f the glory of God.’

  His head was down, Binici was at the choir stalls. Hari was at the fourth pillar.

  ‘The hatred which divides nation from nation …’

  Binici was at the altar rail. Hari had reached the third pillar.

  ‘The covetous desires of people and nations …’

  Some in the congregation shifted uneasily, eyes narrowing. Troubled faces. This was wrong.

  Binici stepped up to the altar. Don Hardin looked up, startled. He managed another line. ‘Our envy of the happiness of others—’ Then he broke away. His firm ‘Can I help you?’ was heard by all. The few in the congregation who had their heads bowed, looked up.

  Hari edged his way along the east side, past a kaleidoscopic wall of stained glass and a boulder-like font, framed in colour. He stopped a few metres from the twins, praying they wouldn’t turn round. That, for these few seconds at least, they would be too scared to move. He stepped into one of the narrow spaces created by the angles of the zigzag walls. A floor-to-ceiling, green-to-gold window cast a shadow which no one saw. From here Hari could watch Binici, the priest and his sisters.

  At the altar, Binici said nothing, Hardin said nothing. Between them, a cross of nails. Silence in the cathedral. Millie and Amara huddled closer. He saw Binici say his words. They were lost to the microphone, but Hari could guess what they were. He held his breath.

  The cat toyed with the bird a few seconds more, then Binici lunged, stabbing Hardin under his ribs. The priest’s shocked, agonized inhalation played across the cathedral’s speakers. Screams from the congregation, many of whom stood. As the priest staggered back, Binici caught him, held him with one hand, stabbed his jugular with the other. The backward flourish of the knife threw blood in an arc across the tapestry, Christ’s feet and vestments now stained crimson.